


Fantastic Priests and Where to Fuck Them

by sappho147z (sappho147)



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post Series, Sex Dreams, folks have you ever longed?, i've brought shame on my entire veggie tales riddled childhood, look i thought of the title and then spend like six months trying to think of a story for it so, mostly i guess? i didn't rewatch but i didn't change the ending, not a super happy ending, sorry there's not more biblical allusions, you ever fucking yearned in your lives????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22017031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sappho147/pseuds/sappho147z
Summary: Even months later, Fleabag still finds the Priest constantly interrupting her thoughts and her dreams, which is pretty rude of him.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Fantastic Priests and Where to Fuck Them

She’d always loved sex dreams. 

It was the perfect system, she’d explained to Boo at least one too many times, after far more than one too many drinks.

Even a one night stand involved all of the preparation. The preening and cleaning, the birth control, going to the right places, saying the right things to the right people, trying to give off the perfect level of friendly, approachable energy, without appearing overbearing. Picking out the right clothes and shoes and doing your hair just so, putting together the perfect costume for the character of fun, flirty, up for anything — but not up for _anyone_ , of course, they had to feel special, like they had done all the seducing.

But in a dream? Three glasses of wine and an early night and you’re well away. As nice as it was to end your day by falling back into bed, exhausted and satisfied, getting the blood pumping was a bloody good start to the day. 

In dreams, you could fuck anyone, anywhere, anyhow and you didn’t even have to shave for it. In dreams she’d been fucked by childhood best friends, now grown up and staggeringly hot, the guy off the bus advert for some island getaway, who made creative use of a lei, and a particularly stern former english teacher who, as she had always suspected, was not one to spare the rod.

And, as a matter of technicality, on other nights, she’d done the fucking.

Lately, however, her unconscious mind had been just as preoccupied as her conscious mind, constantly derailed by thought of Him. He was always the capital ‘He’ in her mind, in part because she thought He’d disapprove, in part because the whole Holy Father-ness was not an insignificant aspect of the Whole Thing, and in a much quieter, less thrilling part, because part of her had though of Him as The Him, singular. The Last One. Part of her still did.

The dreams themselves started out normal enough. Hurrying through some vague dreamscape in an effort to complete a vague but daunting task, lest vague but daunting circumstances befall her, and then, just when she was starting to get a handle on the task at hand, He would show up. 

She’d be driving down a hypnotic, empty highway, only to hear His voice from the backseat, telling her she’d missed her exit. Like she didn’t know. She’d be running down a cobblestone street, chased by some unseen but definitely totally menacing force, when a hand would grasp her arm out of nowhere, pulling her into some perfect secret hiding space, gently pressing a finger to her lips, soon replaced by His own. She’d rush into a building, late for the dentist or the bank, only to turn a corner and find Him still leaning casually up against the brick wall in the alleyway where she had first seen Him, cigarette in hand, smiling like He didn’t know He was about to ruin her life. Most often, she’d find herself back at the confessional, only this time there would be no divine intervention.

It was, on the whole, completely out of the ordinary, for three main reasons.

Firstly, she didn’t typically have regular guests in her late night psychosexual fantasies. For the most part, dreams being the boundless representation of her deepest desires, the featured guests were most often people she hadn’t met. The rich and famous, the fictitious, the long dead, figures that were not strictly people so much as ideas, figures that were not strictly people so much as mythical creatures - Halloween was a confusing time of year. Often some combination of the lot. When she did know them, it was less fantasy so much as unsettled business.

Secondly, when she did, she rarely retraced memories - dreams were for curiosity, pushing boundaries, asking all the questions you’d wanted to ask but couldn’t quite bring yourself to in the moment. The boyfriend she’d _known_ had desperately wanted to take her up the arse, the boyfriend she’d known had desperately wanted to _be_ taken up the arse. That girl in high school whose gaze had lingered from across the room, who’d laughed a little too loud at her jokes, but who always looked shyly away when addressed directly. The exes who’d joked about a three-way but balked when she was a little too game. 

Thirdly, it being her dreams, and her subconscious being, traditionally, quite selfish, she had always got the answers she had hoped for. 

Yes, just like that, right there, whatever you want, whatever you say, of course, oh god yes, I want, I will, we can. 

But all of that, like so many dependable things in her life, had gone out the window. 

The sex itself was almost vague, not a specific _thing_ she’d wanted to try, but the kind of feeling _of_ sex, the idea of being taken, held, of moving with and for another person - for Him, dreamlike in a way that it _had_ been. Desperate and careful, frantic and tender, and all consuming sensation. The what and how and where didn’t matter. 

He held her in the confession booth, fingers fumbling in the dark, up against the churchyard wall, held and holding tightly, sprawled on a forest floor, fingers curling through cool earth and damp moss, on the glossy table of a shiny high rise, a tacky bordello with a mirrored ceiling and lush, disgustingly 70s carpet, in the backseat of a car, an airplane bathroom, even just at home - her home, His home, a third home, some combination of the two, conflicting architecture and decor jumbled together in her mind, like pieces of two different puzzles, forced together. 

The places changed like set pieces being shuffled in and out behind the same core scene, the same directions and lines being played out over and over. The same words were whispered, the sex was almost an identical reproduction of the original. 

Perhaps that was the fantasy, then, the unfinished business. Not any particular thing itself, but the continuation. The most out of reach, impossible fantasy, beyond her subconscious imagination. To be seen — to be known, to be loved, to have Him love her not by some twist of fate or act of god, not by stumbling into things, getting over their heads too quickly and without thinking, falling in love almost by instinct, but on purpose, with intent. 

But even in her most selfish subconscious mind, she couldn’t shake the finality of it all. No matter how or when she asked Him to stay, let those words pass her lips, as a shout, a whisper, a confession, a fact of life. His response was the same as always, as it was always going to be. 

_It’ll pass._


End file.
